


The Spaces in Between

by Luthien



Series: Author's Favourites [7]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-09
Updated: 2007-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:44:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"You really do look younger than you did before, you know," Rodney says.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>John laughs, or snorts or something. Whatever you call it, it's some sort of noise that doesn't have a whole lot of humour in it. "I suppose you could say that the Wraith made me feel younger, too. In a manner of speaking."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spaces in Between

**Author's Note:**

> Episode tag for 'Common Ground'. Also spoilers for/references to: 'Epiphany', 'Sanctuary', 'Rising', and 'Home' (and minor ones for 'Sunday')
> 
> Written in May 2007, so a few minor details (eg. John's ex-wife's name) have since been jossed.

_It's only a tingle at first, just the barest tickle._

*

"I kinda like it here."

It was just a smart remark, a delaying tactic and not a very good one-a view that Kolya's goons clearly shared because next thing John knew they'd replied by blowing a chunk of concrete out of the damned wall right behind his head. He complained about that, in a tone he hoped was worthy of McKay, and yeah, as tactics went, that wasn't a very good one either, but maybe the two not-very-good tactics together would be enough to put the goons off their guard, to make them underestimate him just enough so that when they got close to him he would have a real chance of overpowering them and getting the hell out of here. Because even though he did kinda like it here, in the purely relative sense of here not being there, as in the place the guards wanted to take him, the place that Kolya wanted him to be, here was not somewhere he planned to spend a second longer than he had to the instant he had a better option - like, say, the opportunity to escape.

For all of three seconds, he thought it could be enough. It might have been enough, if tactics had out-numbered guards - if allies had out-numbered enemies. But allies were in even shorter supply than tactics.

All of three seconds was about how long that deathly cold hand stayed pressed against his skin, like dry ice, leaching warmth and life out of him in equal parts as the Wraith fed on him that first time. He hadn't thought anything could hurt as much as it did during those three eternal seconds, but the next time was just as bad, and the next maybe even worse, though degrees of pain really didn't mean much by then. There wasn't any real difference between excruciating and extra-hyper-ultra-excruciating if you'd already passed the point of resistance.

The final time the Wraith touched him there wasn't enough of him left to register pain, if there was any. Sensation was a dull memory, and he was a gasping, dried up husk. Somehow, despite everything, he really hadn't quite believed it would end like this. That it _could_ , sure, but that things really would? No, because his friends would come for him; he knew that without the shadow of a doubt. He still knew it. They'd get here.

It just would have been good if they'd managed to get there while he'd still had the strength to join them in the fight - or the breath to demand just what the hell took them so long.

He had the breath to whisper, "Finish it," and that was all before the hand was coming toward him again.

He heard the Wraith's voice coming from somewhere above him, saying something-mocking him, probably-saying: "As I told you, John Sheppard, there are many things about Wraith that you do not know."

And then-

*

_The sensation flickers across his chest, like the touch of a feather. Or a flame._

*

"Why don't you come for a walk around the village with me this morning?" Teer said, not for the first time, or the second. Or the third. "The sooner you accept-"

"I kinda like it right here," said John, not looking at her, and remained sitting right where he was on the end of the bed, arms gripped tightly around hunched knees.

He kept to that answer, and that position, the next morning, and the next. The day he finally gave in - gave in, not gave up - he didn't say anything at all, but just got to his feet and walked out the door, not even waiting to see if she followed.

If Teer noticed that he'd never actually changed his answer, she didn't give any sign, not so much as an eyeblink. But then, Teer was like that, always apparently ready to settle for the appearance of what she wanted, even though she had to know that a different truth lay just beneath the surface.

She was still just as calm and serene - unruffled like no one else he knew - the night she told him that she knew exactly what lay beneath it all, knew it better than he did. She'd known it all along, before he ever got there. And more than that: she knew every single thing he did, every action, every decision, before he even had a chance to get around to thinking of doing any of them.

She was sure, so sure, of everything that the idea of doubt never seemed to occur to her, and so she could be calm and serene and _pleasant_ and never waver, even a little bit. It should have been nice. It _was_ nice, because really, when it came right down to it, what was not to like about someone who never, ever complained? And yet she made him feel uneasy. Uncomfortable. Maybe it was some of the words she was using, words like 'we' and 'Ascension' and 'trust'. They were the sort of words that made him tense up, made him want to say things that weren't... pleasant.

Or maybe it was just her smile, the smooth, perfect smile that never left her face, as though it had been painted there.

He was shamefully relieved when at last her cool lips pressed against his, preventing him from saying anything more. Preventing him from seeing her smile any more, too. He kinda liked it like that.

*

_It's an insistent tickle now, one he can't ignore. He's not laughing._

*

McKay met him in the Jumper Bay right after he got back, blocking his path before he had a chance to get much beyond the hatch.

"You came back," said McKay. His voice sounded flat and hard.

"Did you think I wouldn't?" John _really_ wasn't in the mood for another round of this, but if McKay was going to push it...

"I did wonder."

"And yet here you are in the Jumper Bay."

"Jumper Five needed a maintenance-"

"It was never going to happen, McKay," John interrupted, abruptly weary of the sparring match before it had even really gotten started.

"Really? You could have fooled me." McKay folded his arms across his chest, his expression somehow even more forbidding than the tone of his voice. "You'll forgive me for doubting, I'm sure, Major, but from where I-"

"Save it, McKay. I get it. She was deceiving us. You were right. I was wrong. Happy now?"

"I..." That wiped the hard look off McKay's face. He frowned. "I really thought that you... that she..."

"Yeah, well, Chaya couldn't leave Proculus and I can't... Well, as it turns out, I kinda like it here," John said with a sigh.

"So you came back."

"Yeah, I did."

They stood there and stared at each other for a moment. It wasn't a very long moment. John swallowed and looked at his feet just as McKay started digging for something in his pocket, a task that apparently required all of his attention.

"Well, I guess I'd better get back to that maintenance check," McKay said when he finally looked up again.

"Yeah, and I'd better drop by Elizabeth's office, let her know..." John shrugged expressively.

He was almost out the door when McKay spoke again: "We would have come looking for you. If you hadn't come back, I mean."

John went still. Trust McKay to find a way to stop him in his tracks. If he had said almost anything but that...

"Just in case you were wondering," McKay added.

John turned around. McKay was standing by Jumper Five, a sleek, silvery box open on the floor beside him.

"I- Thanks, Rodney," John said.

He didn't wait for McKay's reply.

*

_Then it's pins and needles in his chest, and there's nothing funny about that. Nothing funny at all._

*

"Antarctica's one of my least favourite continents," said General O'Neill, sparing a scowl for the endless white landscape spreading out beneath them.

"I kinda like it here," John said, and meant it at least as much as he ever did.

"You like it here," the general repeated disbelievingly.

"Yes, sir," said John, and changed the subject.

General O'Neill gave him a look from behind his sunglasses but didn't call him on it, which surprised John a little.

By the end of the flight, after he'd gotten more experience than he ever could have wanted of O'Neill's tendency towards the succinct - not to mention the flippant-in even the direst and most unlikely situations, he wasn't so surprised any more.

By the end of the day, he knew that Antarctica wasn't going to be the sort of place he kinda liked any more, whether he remained there or not. But by then he wasn't surprised at all.

*

_Not just needles and not just pins but something larger and harder. It's as though someone's trying to hammer a nail into his chest. He can already feel the bruise._

*

Mitch and Dex weren't sure of him when they first met him. They were friendly, sure, but there was a distance there. They were the old hands and he was the new guy, unknown and untested. It took more than a uniform and the few strokes of a pen that had seen them all assigned here together to forge the sort of bond that already lay between the other two.

All that changed in the space of days, first with a mission that John tried hard not to remember afterwards, and then with the subsequent forty-eight hours in Kandahar, most of which, apart from going into that 'tea shop' to begin with, he couldn't remember afterwards however hard he tried. At least the confused, hung over blur of the second obscured the vivid, indelible memories of the first. For a while.

The next morning - the morning at the end of it all, anyway - he staggered to his feet, wishing hopelessly for lots of grease, preferably in the form of a fried bacon sandwich, but settling for the painkillers from his pocket.

Someone stirred on the floor beside him and groaned, and John handed over the painkillers without a word.

Mitch grinned blearily up at him and said, "I think we're gonna kinda like having you around after all, Shep."

John grinned back and didn't say anything.

*

_He knows the nail against his chest is just the beginning. He can't let it pierce him, has to stop it breaching his defences._

*

The mail, when it arrived that day, brought all the usual sorts of letters, everything exactly as expected. Plus one extra he hadn't expected at all.

John frowned blankly at the insignia in the corner of the envelope for a moment before realising what must be inside. Then he frowned some more when he noticed the date on the postmark. It had taken more than two months to reach him. It wasn't unusual for mail to take a while to find them out here, even on something as hard to miss as an aircraft carrier - that whole thing about 'the mail must get through' wasn't the Navy's motto any more than it was the Air Force's - but this one really took the prize for late arrivals. Maybe the delivery van had taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque. Or perhaps Baghdad.

He stared at the envelope some more but still didn't open it. It was strange to think that the deed had been done all these weeks without his knowledge while he'd been out here doing his duty, everything business as usual as one day bled into another. He'd known it was coming, of course, but after he'd signed the papers months ago and shoved them back into the mail he'd also shoved any further thought of them into the back of his mind.

He didn't have to open it; he didn't think he'd ever quite believe in it if he didn't see it for himself.

He ripped open the envelope, and there it was: an official decree declaring the dissolution of a marriage, on thick cream paper.

Divorced. No longer married. Unattached. Detached. Never really attached at all: that was what he'd been accused of a lot, towards the end. That maybe he should have stayed single. And now here he was, single again, just the way she wanted. Only, not really. Not quite.

'Single' was a word for someone who'd never been... Well, he'd thought he'd been committed at the time, even if other people later claimed they'd thought otherwise.

You carried your failures with you in life, even more than your successes. There was always a bit of residue, always at least a bit of mud that stuck, and that was why he couldn't be something as simple as single now. He'd been left carrying too many battle scars to be entitled to use a term like that. No, he couldn't be single any more. Not that 'divorced' was a word he wanted to use either. Just saying it opened the way to a thousand conversations he never wanted to have.

'Unattached' was a better term. It said all that needed to be said about his current state without admitting anything he didn't want to admit. He kinda liked it.

He looked over the judgment one more time. There it was, both of their names in full, the place and the date:

July 30th.

Not just any day. Almost all the other days since he'd been assigned here had quickly merged together in the never-ending flow of memory, with only the occasional rough eddy to distinguish a few from all the others.

That day hadn't been a rough eddy. It had been more like a white squall, starting out so ordinary, so incredibly routine that the only slightly remarkable thing about it was that everything had been going exactly by the book for once, but by the end of it all...

He could still see the other helicopter hovering just above the waves, rising a little after successfully taking the men from the water, then dipping a little, rising again, and at the last possible second the rotor blade clipping the water. And that was it.

He'd been back behind the controls of his own machine in an instant, and out there moments later. Not that he was in time to make a difference. He couldn't have done anything more, that's what they said later. The situation was beyond his control. He did everything he could. It just hadn't been enough.

He smiled humourlessly at the letter in his hand: beyond his control and not enough. It had definitely been the day for it.

He shoved the letter, decree, envelope and all, into the back of his locker and slammed the door closed. He stood there a moment and let the usual half-smile settle onto his face before striding off to deal with more important things - with situations where his actions stood the chance of making a difference if he just tried hard enough.

*

_The hammer strikes, again and again and again._

*

John never knew his name, or where he was from, or anything about him.

John didn't like him.

John didn't like the way he made him feel. John didn't know what the right word for that feeling was, but whatever it was, he felt it, far, far too much.

John never knew his name, or where he was from, or anything about him-except that his body was hard and lean and his skin tasted warm and sweaty in John's mouth, and that when he wrapped his hand around John's cock it was everything, everything in the world.

He didn't go to that place, or any other place like it, again. And, well, John never knew the guy's name.

*

_Hard and relentless, the cold-hot ache of it is eating him up. Or trying to tear him apart._

*

Her name was Lori and she had straight dark hair that flipped over her shoulders and white, even teeth that flashed into a dazzling smile without fail every time she saw him.

She smiled that smile at him that day, and asked when he was leaving for home. John sipped his coffee and tried not to mind what should have been a reasonable question. After all, who didn't go home for Christmas break? The dorms were emptying out fast now and soon there wouldn't be anyone left.

He didn't mean to give her a real answer. He meant to be non-committal, to smile vaguely and mysteriously and leave her wondering about his non-existent plans, but somehow she got it out of him.

And he really hadn't meant to agree to go home with her for the holidays, hadn't expected the invitation - though afterwards he thought that maybe he should have. But then, he never did see these things coming. Maybe it was her smile that got him. Or maybe it was the way she exclaimed, "But you didn't go home for Thanksgiving either!" so loudly that John slouched down in his chair and muttered an "Okay, I'll come, thanks," hoping that the people at the adjoining tables would look away again.

Home and family really weren't his thing but Lori's home turned out to be nice, just like her, and her family, her brothers and sister, seemed fine. Even her dad was probably okay when he wasn't holding out his hand in welcome and calling John 'son' in a totally unnerving way.

And then John met Lori's mom. She looked a lot like Lori, or Lori looked a lot like her. Same dark hair, but shorter. Same big smile, but more... practised. And when she stopped smiling and opened her mouth, John started realising just what the rest of the holiday was going to be like.

Lori's mother wanted to know _everything_. It was such a shame that John's parents were away. Where were they again? Oh, in Europe? Skiing? Fancy that! And his brothers and sisters? John was an only child? So he was used to smaller family gatherings than this, then. His mother must- His _step_ -mother, was it? And had he been very young when...?

The next time Lori invited him home, for a weekend early in the new semester, he told her he kinda liked it back at the dorm, instead. And the next time, too. She stopped smiling at him not long after that.

He didn't go home for the holidays with anyone again.

*

_Not just hard, but sharp, cutting into his skin. The hand against his chest is a keen, deadly blade. The Wraith is slicing him open, laying him bare, letting him spill out on the ground and he can't do a thing to stop it._

*

"This is home now, John, and you have to stay here. There isn't a choice."

John looked at his dad, trying to work out what he was getting at. He'd never had a choice about any of the other places they'd moved to so what was the big deal this time?

"When's Mom going to get back?" he asked. It was getting late and there was still no sign of Mom - and no sign of dinner. John was getting hungry. And besides, Dad never liked it when dinner was late. He didn't yell or anything, but you could tell. Dad could get mad without saying anything at all, so that you could feel it in the air. It made everything feel bad. John didn't want to be in the house alone with Dad and no dinner while it just got later and later and Mom still didn't come home.

"John, don't you understand? Didn't you hear what I said? Mommy's gone away."

"Yeah, I heard you." John eyed Dad uncertainly. "So when's she coming home? I'm hungry."

Dad closed his eyes for a second, and ran a hand through his hair so that it ended up looking all messy. Not as messy as John's, which was getting just long enough that it had started flopping into his eyes, but messy like Dad had just gotten out of bed or something. Dad's hair never usually looked messy, not even when he really had just gotten out of bed. Dad liked to be straight into the shower first thing in the morning, and then afterwards he sat down to breakfast in his uniform, freshly shaved and with smooth, slicked back hair.

"I'll fix us something in a moment," said Dad.

John looked at him in amazement. Did Dad even know how to cook? John'd never seen him cook anything before, except toast and barbecues, sometimes. "Maybe we should just wait for Mom," he suggested.

"John," Dad said, and he was shaking his head now, "I keep telling you: your mother's gone and she's not coming back. She's not going to be here to cook or do anything else tonight or any other night."

"Okay," John said, and thrust his hands into his pockets because... he didn't know why. It was just a good place to put them. And maybe because Dad was always telling him to take his hands out of his pockets because an officer never did that sort of thing. John bit his lip. "So... when are we going to go be with her?" he asked.

Dad crouched down in front of him. He never did that any more. Not since John was little. "We're not," he said. He laid a big hand on John's shoulder. "It's better that your mother stays where she is right now and she can't have you there, so you and I will be staying here."

"No!" John pulled away, and then he was running through the house. He felt something hard and heavy push against his side, and there was a crash and the tinkle of glass shattering behind him, but he kept right on running. He wasn't really aware of going up the stairs, but he must have done because he ended up sitting on the landing at the top of the staircase on the second floor. That was where his dad found him.

"You broke the Chinese lamp," Dad said, stopping on the third step from the top.

John looked down at his sneakers. He was in trouble. So what? He didn't care. He didn't.

"How many times do I have to tell you-" Dad stopped, and swallowed. "It doesn't matter. It's just a lamp. I'll clean it up - Don't you go anywhere near there without shoes!-and we'll buy another one."

John looked up. Standing there on the step, thrusting his fingers through his hair again, his dad didn't look as tall and far away as usual. It was easier to look him in the eyes.

And then Dad ruined it all by speaking again.

"It's for the best," he said hesitantly. "She'll stay there, and you and I will stay here. Everything will be all right."

John went still, every bit of him. It was like his body had forgotten how to move. Every bit of him but his mouth. He didn't think the words, but they came out anyway.

"Mommy wouldn't leave me! She didn't! She-"

"John, stop!" Dad was up the last few steps and hauling him to his feet, and then he had John's shoulders in a strong grip. He held him there, keeping a good distance between them, so that John's fists could only pummel uselessly at the empty air. "Stop!" Dad said again in the strong, firm voice he used when he talked to the soldiers on the base.

"She didn't! She didn't!" John shouted, arms still flailing.

"Stop it, John. Stop it right now. I'm getting tired of this display. Stop!" There was a hand suddenly at his jaw and then there were fingers under his chin, forcing his face up, forcing him to look his dad in the eye again. He wasn't easy to look at any more. "Your mother's not here any more. She's gone away and she won't be coming back. Do you get that? It's just the way things are. You can't change it and you're going to have to learn to live with it."

"You're lying!" The last word caught in John's throat, like he'd eaten a bag of chips too quickly and one had gotten stuck halfway down.

"You know I'm not lying," Dad said, and his voice was all quiet and sort of scary. "Remember what I've always taught you: an officer never lies, and he never accuses others of lying. You understand that, don't you, John?"

John gulped. "Mommy wouldn't leave me," he said again, though the words came out quieter than before and he didn't repeat the bit about Dad being a liar. He felt all wrong. Everything looked all blurry and he could feel the tears hot against his cheeks. He slumped, not trying to fight any more, not trying to get away, and after a moment Dad took his hands off him and John was left standing there alone. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and nose, and it came away all icky, all tears and snot. If Mom were here he would have had a handkerchief in his pocket to wipe it all clean, because Mom always nagged about that sort of stuff, but he didn't have a handkerchief today, and when he opened his eyes again Dad was looking down at him, big and tall, much taller than Mom, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

"You didn't answer my question, John," said Dad. When John still didn't answer, Dad shook his head and said, "Is there some other little boy you're learning this attitude from? Somebody at school?"

It was John's turn to frown. What other little boy? "I don't really know anybody," he said, which was true. They hadn't been here long enough for John to be anything but The New Kid yet.

Weirdly, that seemed to be the right answer. At least, it was the sort of answer that got that scary look off Dad's face. He smiled sadly instead, for some reason that John had no idea about. "You'll make friends," Dad said. "I always did when my family moved around from base to base when I was a boy."

John just stared at him, bewildered. He didn't know why Dad was talking about making friends, like it mattered, like anything mattered when there was no Mom.

"I don't like it here. I want to be with Mom," he said.

"John, you can't be with your mom," his Dad said tiredly. "This is where you have to stay. There isn't a choice."

"I'm going to go. I'll bet Mom wants-"

"Mom wants to be alone!" Dad actually shouted that time and afterwards they both stood there in the silence and looked at each other in shock. Dad never shouted. Not for real.

Dad ran his hand through his hair again. This time he left it there, gripping hard at the back of his head. "Go clean up, wash your face and hands," he said quietly. "You can play in your room until dinner. I'll call you when it's ready."

John just looked at his dad for a moment. He felt weird and sick, and his arms were shaking, just a little bit, even though he didn't want them to. "Okay," he said.

"Good man," said Dad, and laid a hand on John's shoulder.

John flinched, and the hand drew away again.

"Go on, then," said his father, and his voice sounded as weird as John felt.

John went.

He kinda liked it in his room, anyway.

*

_The Wraith's hunger burns through him, destroying everything in its path until he's lying there, whole again, left trying to work out what just happened, whether any of it was real. He remembers, he remembers..._

He remembers that he's lying on the forest floor, and the Wraith is still leaning over him.

He's already struggling, trying to get up, when the Wraith is suddenly gone, flung away from him, and Ronon's there.

John's on his feet in a flash then, his body his own again, yelling "Wait" as Ronon takes aim, as the others raise their weapons.

It all goes fairly predictably after that, right down to Rodney's disgusted comment that John looks even younger than he did before. Predictable, apart from the whole not killing the Wraith when they have it outnumbered and at their mercy, that is. Predictable, apart from the whole not naming the Wraith, for once - this Wraith who all but called him 'brother'. This Wraith who has used him up and consumed him, looked right inside him and restored him. This Wraith who has seen. This nameless Wraith who knows.

John doesn't think and doesn't think and doesn't think about it, about any of it, all through the rest of the mission. He keeps his mind on the job and his hand on his P-90, most particularly when the Wraith wakes up, unexpectedly alive and bewildered, by a long-abandoned stargate on a deserted world.

"Next time we meet-" begins the Wraith.

"All bets are off," John finishes, and then vanishes into the cloaked 'jumper behind him as the Wraith is distracted by the sudden appearance of a dart arcing through the night sky.

John keeps it all together, focused and calm, as the wormhole closes around them and they head for home, as they arrive back at Atlantis at last, as he makes his way through the crush of bodies crowding too close, amid welcoming smiles and claps on the shoulder, through the official debriefing and obligatory medical exam. It's all routine, check, check and check.

And then, finally, he's free. Of responsibilities. Of distractions. Free to think. Free to remember. And after that-

As with the Wraith, all bets are off.

~*~

John hears the gentle _whoosh_ of the doors opening, followed by the sound of someone stepping out onto the balcony, but he doesn't look to see who it is. He doesn't move at all, just stays right where he is, knees against his chest and head back, leaning against the side of the balcony as he takes another long look at the sky. The stars swirl above, thousands of tiny pinpricks blurring together as though they're some sort of hallucination, but the smooth metal feels solid and cold against his back through the thin material of his shirt and he knows that this is real.

"Sheppard."

It's Rodney. John's mildly surprised at that. His money was on Ronon finding him out here if anyone did, and he'd been counting on Ronon knowing to leave him alone for a while.

Rodney walks across the balcony until he's standing right by John; John keeps looking at the sky.

"So here you are," Rodney says.

John turns his head just enough so that he can see Rodney and still keep an eye on the stars.

"Yes, that's my name and here I am," John agrees, because Rodney sounds as though he's expecting some sort of reply to his statements of the obvious. "And the night's pretty dark, isn't it?" John can play this game too.

John waits for the sarcastic comeback, but Rodney just lets out a long breath and stares down at him. John's not sure what Rodney thinks he's looking at. Like most of the balcony doors in Atlantis, the doors to this one are multi-coloured glass, glowing green and orange and yellow with the light from the corridor beyond, like still flames against the night. Not much of the light penetrates as far as this dark corner, and Rodney's blocking most of it anyway. Rodney's face is a pale blur in the semi-darkness, and John's pretty damned sure that Rodney can make out just as little of John's own face. He wonders again about what Rodney thinks he sees.

John feels around on the ground beside him, grabs his flask, unscrews the cap with slow, deliberate movements, making sure to shake it a bit so that the stuff inside makes a sloshing sound, and takes a long swig. The liquid is smooth and cool in his mouth and going down his throat. He runs his tongue against the back of his teeth, savouring the taste, and then pulls the flask away from his mouth with a gasp. The performance is mostly for McKay's benefit, just to see what Rodney will do, but he didn't have to fake that gasp at all; the aftertaste really does get to him a little every time.

Rodney's still watching him but he doesn't say anything. Not to John, anyway. Instead his hand goes up to his radio, opening a channel. "I've found him," he says quietly. And then, slightly louder: "Yes, you were right." A pause, then Rodney shakes his head impatiently. "No, I'll take care of it- What? Of course I can!" Another pause, and this time Rodney holds himself very still. "To be excruciatingly clear: I'll call you if either of us needs assistance from either of you." Then, softer and slightly apologetic: "Yes, he's... fine. McKay out."

And then it's just the two of them again, together on the balcony. Rodney apparently comes to some sort of decision and plonks himself down on the cool tiles beside John.

"That was... Teyla was concerned," Rodney says, waving vaguely at his radio as he leans back against the side of the balcony and stretches his legs out in front of him. "About you."

"About me?" John raises his eyebrows in pretend surprise, and then he takes another drink. The flask glints silver as he tips it back. It's not the only thing that's easier to see now that Rodney's no longer standing in the way of the light. John looks up at the stars again.

"Yes, about you. This comes as such as a surprise why, exactly? We finally got you back and then you just disappeared!"

"You're - oh, sorry, _Teyla's_ -concerned," says John. "Well, yes, I've had a trying few days," he concedes. "What with being harpooned and thrown in one of the worst jail cells I've ever been in-"

"Wait. You were harpooned?" Rodney's eyes go wide; John doesn't even have to look to know that. "You never mentioned that before."

John winces. He hadn't meant to let that slip. Maybe the stuff in the flask is stronger than he thought. "That's how Kolya got me, yeah. It didn't really hurt that much," he mutters, rubbing his chin. "Anyway, the point is that I was captured and imprisoned and, oh yeah, had almost all of my remaining years progressively _drained by a Wraith_ before we joined forces and managed to escape and then he miraculously restored me, so, you know, you might want to forgive me for feeling the need to unwind a little now that all that's behind me."

"Yes, I know," Rodney says, and then he's gone unnaturally quiet again. It occurs to John that the last few days probably haven't been a barrel of laughs for his team either. "You really do look younger than you did before, you know," he adds.

John laughs, or snorts or something. Whatever you call it, it's some sort of noise that doesn't have a whole lot of humour in it. "I suppose you could say that the Wraith made me feel younger, too. In a manner of speaking."

The wind gets up suddenly, and Rodney shivers and wraps his arms around himself for a moment. "Aren't you cold?" he asks, looking John up and down and noting with distinct disapproval the lack of any clothing involving long sleeves.

John shrugs. "I hadn't really noticed. I've been out here a while." He raises the flask to his lips again.

"Do you really think that's such a good idea?" Rodney asks, his frown deepening.

"Do I really think _what_ is such a good idea?" John replies.

"That," Rodney says, pointing at the flask. "You've practically been chugging it, and that's only in the two minutes since I got here."

"I'm not chugging-" John begins angrily just as Rodney demands: "Can you even stand?"

"Of course I can stand!" John retorts. "I just prefer to sit. And look at the stars. _Alone_."

"And drink yourself into oblivion while you're at it, out here where anyone could stumble over you. Yes, I can see how that would be an excellent plan. A great, shining example for the military commander of Atlantis to make of himself," Rodney says scornfully.

"Was there something you wanted, McKay, or did you just happen to come stumbling out here by chance? Either way, there has to be somewhere else you're supposed to be right now." John's leaning forward now, glaring into his face.

"I want you to stop indulging your self-destructive streak, and leave this Arctic balcony before you develop hypothermia and come inside," McKay says tightly, his jaw tense. All of him tense.

"So I have a self-destructive streak now?"

That question finally earns him an eye roll. "Obviously, though it's usually all noble self-sacrifice rather than self-indulgence. This sort of thing just isn't like-"

And Rodney goes silent again, cutting himself off as abruptly as if someone had switched off his power supply mid-sentence.

John doesn't say anything, just falls back against the side of the balcony and takes up the flask again.

"People are worried about you," Rodney says in a low voice.

"Oh, _people_ are, are they?"

"All right, _I'm_ worried about you because you're... well, I thought we were friends. Checking up on someone who pulls a disappearing act the night he gets back after going through... the sort of thing you've just been through is the sort of thing a friend does."

"Is it?" John flashes a sour smile at him and takes a swig , short and sharp, before Rodney has the chance to make any sort of objection.

"A friend would stop you from drinking too much of whatever's in that flask," Rodney says quietly.

"Maybe. Depends what's in it, really, doesn't it?" John points out, and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

Rodney is silent. John can feel the tension emanating off him in waves. Rodney can't bear this sort of thing, can't bear not to know about _anything_. Finally - after about a minute - it's just too much. "So?" Rodney snaps.

"So what?"

"Oh, just stop being deliberately obtuse, will you? What's in the flask? Vodka? Bourbon, maybe? Or am I looking at some of Carson's missing medicinal brandy?"

"I got it from Halling," John says, and, oh God, it's almost worth it, everything he's been through leading up to this moment, just so that he gets to see the look on Rodney's face right now.

"Oh my God, you didn't? Not that rot gut Halling's brother-in-law laid down the summer before last? It's like drinking paint stripper! Or so I'm reliably informed," he adds hastily, just as if John doesn't know about the two bottles that came back from the mainland three weeks ago in the guise of a box of 'delicate scientific equipment, attention: R. McKay'.

"It's not that bad," John says. "Or so I'm reliably informed." He raises the flask to his lips again.

Rodney twitches, like he's just barely stopping himself from knocking the flask out of John's hand. "I can't believe that you're drinking that stuff!"

"Who said I was drinking it?"

"You did!"

"No, you did," John corrects with a smirk. "All I said was that I got it from Halling."

Rodney sighs a long-suffering sort of sigh. "Ha ha. Very funny, Colonel. I have to say that as a comedian you make an excellent pilot." He leans back against the side of the balcony. "So, really, what's in the flask?"

"You really want to know?" John says.

"No, I'm just asking because I like the sound of my own voice. And no, don't even think about-

"Tea," John says.

"What?"

"Tea. In this flask."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope. It's Athosian tea. You know that stuff they like to have with breakfast? Like I said, I got it from Halling."

"I don't believe you."

"Try some," John says, holding out the flask.

Rodney takes it, but treats it as though it's alive, as though it might bite. He sniffs at the top, all suspicion, and then says in clear surprise, "Huh. Smells like tea."

"See, I told you. Tea," John says. And then, as Rodney takes a cautious sip, he adds, "Mostly."

'Mostly tea' goes everywhere and Rodney chokes, "You bastard. What else is in there?"

"A little bit of this, a little bit of that. Even a little bit of Halling's brother-in-law's paint stripper," John says with the ghost of a smile as he retrieves the flask from Rodney's unresisting grasp. "But mostly a whole lot of that stuff they gave us on P7J-393."

"Oh God, not that stuff that looks like water, smells like water and has the potency of one hundred and ninety proof rocket fuel?" Rodney groans and buries his head in his hands. "How much have you had?" he asks, voice muffled through his fingers.

"Not sure," John says thoughtfully.

"And what possessed you to mix it with tea?" Rodney demands, looking up again and nailing John with a stare, but John can tell that he's not expecting a serious answer.

"They serve alcohol that way in the tea shops in Afghanistan," John says, and leans back to look at the stars so hard and so fast that his head thunks audibly against the side of the balcony.

The wind rushes up and around the sides of the tower, the tail end of it whispering over the edge of the balcony to join them.

"Did that place where Kolya had you locked up remind you of somewhere in Afghanistan?" Rodney asks at last.

"No."

"Oh," Rodney says. And then, a little too quickly: "It's not a bad night for stargazing. Well, as good as it gets in the city, thanks to the light pollution. At least there's no cloud cover so the sky's clear. Look, there's Blerophallsus, right over there."

"Blerophallsus?" John says, squinting in the general direction of Rodney's pointing finger, and the dozen stars that might or might not be the one he's talking about.

"One of the constellations in the Ancients' celestial sphere - the star chart."

"I know what a celestial sphere is, Rodney." John takes another sip from the flask just because he can. "Blerophallsus," John says flatly, staring upwards.

"Hey, don't blame me. I didn't name it. It's not my fault the Ancients got there first and that they were crap at naming, well, anything," Rodney protests.

"So what's so special about Blero-phall-sus?" John draws out the syllables of the name until it's at least twice as long as it needs to be, and ends up biting down on his lip.

"PXF-157 is in Blerophallsus, to begin with. And stop smirking."

"How do you know I'm smirking? You're not even-" But when he looks over at Rodney he finds that Rodney isn't looking at the sky any more.

John looks away.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten that mission already, Colonel." Rodney's voice sounds almost normal. It doesn't match the look John just caught on his face at all.

"No," John says. "I haven't forgotten it." A routine mission that turned out to be anything but, just like countless others. This is his cue to trot out the story about Rodney mistaking the villagers' sacred offerings for a buffet, leaving an opening for Rodney to counter with a reminder of the total misunderstanding that followed involving John and the Magister's sister.

Instead, the silence settles between them. John can hear the wind again, moving restlessly around the sides of the tower. He imagines he can hear the water washing against the pier below, though they're much too high up for the sound to reach, even this far down the tower.

John's legs are beginning to stiffen up and his ass is getting numb from sitting in one position on the ground for so long. He pushes himself up on his hands, then stretches, before settling back against the side of the balcony again. Rodney's right about it being cold out here. Not that John plans to tell him he's right. About anything.

"It's like a map of where we've been and what we've done," Rodney says suddenly.

"What?" John says.

"The night sky, the stars. I could point you out dozens of stars up there right now, places we've been, things we've done." He turns to John . "You know I was the world's foremost expert on the Stargate before I ever even saw it?"

John just looks at him.

"Okay, no one at the SGC agreed with that assessment, but the Pentagon did! I had my own virtual computer model when I was working at Area 51, and I knew more about the Stargate than anyone else alive. I understood how it worked, and, more importantly, how it was supposed to work, much better than anyone else did. Much better than Carter." It's possible that John lets some of what he's thinking show on his face at this point, or maybe he even makes some sort of noise under his breath, because the expression on Rodney's face gets less contemplative and more indignant and his voice gets higher and louder. "It's true! Some of the things she did with the Earth 'gate used to give me nightmares, even after I met her in person - though obviously by then the nightmares were mixed with more pleasant-"

"Are you actually going somewhere with this, Rodney? Other than Colonel Carter's physical appearance, I mean? Because I've heard that one before," John says.

"Yes, what I'm saying has a point to it. You should know by now that everything I say always has a point to it. Now, if you wouldn't mind?" Rodney taps his index finger impatiently against his knee.

John gives a negligent wave of the hand.

"Thank you." Rodney eyes him suspiciously for a moment but John keeps his lips firmly closed. "As I was about to say: But then I went through the Stargate myself. Well, not right away, obviously. First there was the assignment to Russia, which we're not going to talk about, and then there was the whole thing in Antarctica, which we don't need to talk about, because you remember- Anyway, the point is that I went through the Stargate and came here, and became part of our team and kept on going through the Stargate and... it all stopped being just a theory."

John stays quiet a moment, just to make sure that's really all Rodney has to say, and then he says, "That's it? That's your great revelation? That artificial wormholes and Stargates are real and not just a theory? I hate to break it to you, Rodney, but a few other people beat you to that one."

Rodney shakes his head impatiently. "Did you actually take in a thing I said? I'm not just talking about my theories about wormholes and Stargates, I'm talking about _all_ of my work. I'm an astrophysicist," he says, slowly and clearly, as though talking to a dim-witted child. "Everything out there," he gestures at the sky, "used to be simply the demonstration of theory as far as I was concerned. I used to look in a telescope and see a huge, controlled experiment. Everything out there that we didn't understand was simply one more intellectual challenge waiting to be solved - preferably by me. Going to other planets was the farthest thing from my mind, never mind living in another galaxy. So when I sit out here with you and I look up at the night sky and the first thing I see isn't the embodiment of my work, proof that I'm right... Do you know what that means? That instead I think 'I've been there - and there, and there and there.' It's... real. And all the memories that go with those places make it more real, too. Even the ones that involve us running from heavily armed people who're never going to help us find another ZPM or defeat the Wraith. Or, on second thoughts, maybe especially those ones."

Rodney reaches round to rub the side of his ass where John knows he carries the scar from an arrow wound. And then he looks over and smiles at John, that happy-sad serious smile he gets sometimes when he's trying to be earnest and not just overcome with smugness at the latest evidence of his own brilliance. John thinks that Rodney's probably expecting him to return the smile. It would probably be the right thing to do, in the circumstances. But... If Rodney wants that sort of response maybe he shouldn't start talking about how real things can seem when you go through the Stargate. Not tonight.

John realises that he's not holding the flask any more; he must have put it down at some point during the conversation. He feels around on the ground for it. If it were almost anyone else but Rodney he'd think that he was trying to use the conversation to distract John on purpose. Trust Rodney to find a way by accid- He almost knocks the flask over, grabbing it just in time before it spills. Rodney frowns at him as John takes a long swig.

"Show me some of the places we've been to," John says before Rodney can say anything.

Rodney eyes him warily, but he points out a few sites of recent missions, making sure to avoid anything that involves too many unpleasant memories or serious cock-ups. He's going to run out pretty soon if he tries to keep that up, John thinks without any real amusement.

"So where's MXL-142?" John breaks in when he's decided Rodney's rambled on long enough.

Rodney doesn't answer at once. "I don't think you can see its star right now," he says after a moment.

"Don't you know?" John asks, and he doesn't bother trying to keep the annoyed snap out of his voice. Rodney always knows. He likes knowing. If he claims he's not sure about something then he's trying to avoid giving a straight answer. And somehow that makes John angrier than anything Rodney's actually said since he tracked John down out here.

Rodney folds his arms across his chest and gives John a long, steady look. "You realise that that Wraith must be long gone by now, don't you? We saw that dart overhead just before we left. The ship it was from will have been by to collect him, hours ago, probably."

John knows all that, of course he knows that. He clutches the flask tight in his hand, so tight that some of the contents spill out onto the ground.

Rodney's eyes are still on him, watching his every move. At least he's not trying to pretend any more, but he doesn't comment on the flask or John's shaking hands. He doesn't say anything more about MXL-142 or the Wraith they left there, either. Instead, he lets out a shuddering breath and rubs his hands up and down his arms.

"The problem with nights that are good for stargazing is that the lack of cloud cover tends to make everything that much colder," Rodney says. He hauls himself to his feet, groaning, and then holds out a hand to John. "Come on, it's late and we both need to get some sleep."

"You go to bed if you want. I kinda like it here," John says, ignoring Rodney's outstretched hand.

"You can't stay out here all night. You don't even have a jacket," Rodney objects.

John rolls his eyes. "I'm not planning on staying out here the entire night. And anyway, it's not that cold. Like I said, I kinda like it out here."

"I really think I'd better see you back to your quarters, Colonel," Rodney says firmly.

John blinks. Just when did _Rodney_ learn to tell when John's lying about something, anyway?

"And don't think for a minute that I'm offering out of some sort of misguided altruism," Rodney continues. "This is self-interest, pure and simple. What do you think Ronon and Teyla would do to me if I left you out here? Or perhaps you'd prefer to leave me to Elizabeth's tender mercies - or Carson's - tomorrow morning when they find your frozen, lifeless-" Rodney looks over the side of the balcony and swallows hard. "Look, forget that last bit. Forget anything you want. Just-"

Okay, so John gets it. The last few days really, _really_ haven't been a barrel of laughs for his team.

"I don't have to stay out here," John says carefully into the silence. "I'm just not in the mood to go to bed yet, that's all." _And won't be for the rest of the night_ , he doesn't add.

Rodney clears his throat, and turns back to look at John. He's standing directly between John and the door again so John can't make out the expression on his face. "So: not this balcony and not your quarters. If I were to offer you a third alternative, would you take it?"

"I might consider it. Depends what it was." He's already putting together a mental list of places he's not in the mood to go, including pretty much anywhere in Atlantis where there might be the chance of extra company, when Rodney says:

"Since your quarters are off limits, at least for the moment, how about mine?" He's trying really hard to sound casual about it, to the point where the suggestion sounds awkward and forced.

"Go to your quarters? And do what, exactly?" John leans back against the side of the balcony, trying for the casual and relaxed look. He suspects he doesn't really succeed, but at least he's not missing the goal posts by as much as Rodney.

Rodney shrugs. "I'm sure we can find something to do."

"So the third alternative is to just go back to your place and hang out?" John narrows his eyes, feeling oddly put out.

"What's wrong with that?"

"I dunno." John shrugs. "You don't think you could maybe make it sound a little more... enticing?"

"What's wrong with my quarters? You've been there before. You know what they're like."

"Exactly."

"And just what's that supposed to mean?" Rodney still doesn't sound relaxed, but probably for different reasons now.

"Well, you have to admit, there are more exciting places in Atlantis," John drawls.

"Says the man who thinks a fun afternoon involves sitting on his bed rubbing his golf clubs."

"Polishing! Not rubbing. There's a big difference," John says indignantly.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure that use of the correct technical term is all-important," Rodney says with a dismissive wave of the hand. "The point is, you're not really in any position to complain that the prospect of a visit to my quarters isn't sufficiently exciting."

"Hey, you're the one who's trying to persuade me to go somewhere else. I can always stay here." John lifts the flask again.

"I've got DVDs-"

"I've seen all your DVDs, just like you've seen all of mine."

"Um..." Rodney sounds stumped.

"Wow, you're just spoilt for choice in your wide and varied range of leisure time activities, aren't you, McKay?"

"You know very well how much leisure time I don't have, and you also know precisely what I do with what little free time I do get since most of it is spent with you playing our ga-" Rodney snaps his fingers. "Chess!"

"Huh?"

"I've got a chess set back in my quarters. We could have a match or two. Maybe best of three, or even best out of five, if I'm feeling particularly magnanimous. Assuming you know how to play, of course?"

"Oh, I've played once or twice. I think I remember most of the rules," John says. He tries his best to play it cool but just maybe Rodney's onto something here. And just maybe, if they play, Rodney will find himself wanting to try for best of five sooner than he thinks, too. "Okay, let's play chess."

"Finally! My quarters really aren't that bad, you know," Rodney says, holding out his hand to John again. "You might even turn out to 'kinda like it' there instead of out here."

"Yeah, maybe," John says as something cold runs straight through him. His voice sounds hollow to his own ears. _And then again, maybe not_. He lurches to his feet. His head is spinning and it's not all or even mostly because of the alcohol. He grabs hold of the rail, steadying himself, or trying to.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, take it easy," Rodney says, hand moving up to take John by the arm.

"I'm fine," John snaps, brushing Rodney's hand away before he has a chance to touch him and walking purposefully across the balcony to the door. His stride doesn't falter. Much.

"Of course you are," Rodney says dryly, coming up beside him. "Here, you forgot about this." And he hands John the silver flask. He looks like he badly wants to say more, but he doesn't. John stuffs the flask into his pocket.

John blinks against the light as they walk along the corridor to the transporter. It's way too bright after the dimness of the balcony. His eyes hurt and his head feels heavy and it's all he can do to stop himself from bringing a hand up to cover his eyes. Rodney's walking close beside him, maybe a little too close. Their arms keep brushing and he gets the feeling that Rodney's waiting to grab him by the elbow if he stumbles. And wouldn't that just be the perfect cap on everything? It's not like he's really that drunk. John concentrates on walking as fast and straight as he can, rapidly outstripping Rodney so that Rodney ends up being the one who stumbles in an effort to catch up.

"It's not a race," Rodney says huffily as they get into the transporter. John presses their destination, saving himself from replying. He's hardly finished turning around again when the doors are opening and they've arrived. It still makes him blink, the near instantaneous travel provided by the transporters, perhaps because there's something so prosaic about them that he still half-expects them to act like the elevators they resemble. At least when you make a near instantaneous trip through a Stargate there's planning and preparation involved, and the sense that this is some sort of Event.

Rodney leads the way into his quarters, and immediately takes charge. He produces the chess pieces and a battered, folding board from a drawer and then sets John the task of setting things up, before disappearing into the bathroom, muttering something over his shoulder about coffee.

All at once, John finds himself alone in Rodney's room for maybe the first time ever, and feeling weirdly like he just wandered from one transporter into another. Because walking in through the door into Rodney's room is one thing. It's no big deal. He's done it dozens of times before. But staying here with the intention of actually doing something, or even just hanging out? That's something else again. There's nothing casual about Rodney inviting John - or anyone - back to his quarters to socialise. It's something that just doesn't happen often in the normal course of things, though John has no clue why. It's not that Rodney prevents anyone from stopping by; it's just that he doesn't really... offer.

Somehow it didn't quite penetrate John's brain just what a big deal it was when Rodney made that offer back on the balcony, and now John's wandered into something that he thought was mundane and ordinary and found something remarkable in disguise. Like the transporters, it's something he should have been expecting but somehow forgot about because it was right in front of him all the time and looked like something else.

He guesses he should feel grateful that Rodney's bent the rules just for him, but mostly he just feels pissed. He doesn't need special treatment, like there's something wrong with him. He's... he _will be_ fine. If Rodney had just left him alone on that damned balcony everything would have sorted itself out.

John pulls the desk out from the wall, perhaps with a little more force than is strictly necessary, clears some space on top and sets up the board. Then he grabs Rodney's spare chair, dumps the stuff on it in a pile in the corner, sits down - and curses under his breath. The flask is still in his pocket, and digging painfully into his hip. He pulls it out and just stares at it for a moment, then sets it down by the chessboard. With nothing left to do but wait, his gaze wanders to the rest of the room. Apart from the wall of framed degrees and awards it's really not much different from any of the other personal quarters in Atlantis he's seen, including his own, right down to the dearth of personal items.

John sighs and leans back in the chair, and winds up looking at the ceiling. He wishes he hadn't come here. He hadn't intended to. He hadn't intended to come in off the balcony at all. He'd planned to stay out there for as long as it took. He's nowhere near that stage yet, he's still all raw, rough edges, out of balance and better left alone. Yet here he is, badgered by Rodney into coming back to play chess of all things, and he really didn't put up much of a fight. He let it happen. He knows that's all the more reason why he should get out of here now. Rodney's easy enough to shake off if he really wants to but-

"Black or white?" John asks as Rodney comes back into the room, carrying a coffeemaker and two mugs that look suspiciously like the ones that are never supposed to leave the mess.

"Go ahead and take white if you feel you need the advantage of playing first. I prefer the extra challenge of playing second, actually. And besides, I wouldn't want this to turn into too much of a walkover."

John resists the urge for swift and violent action and instead seizes the two kings from the board and hides them behind his back.

"Let's leave it to chance," he says, bringing out his closed fists and holding them out for Rodney to choose.

After a near endless thirty seconds or so of careful consideration during which Rodney makes a move toward one hand or the other no less than four times and John rolls his eyes just as often, Rodney finally taps John's left hand. It's just a fleeting contact, three of Rodney's fingers touching the back of John's hand, the outermost finger sliding briefly across one knuckle, before they're gone again.

John freezes. Apart from the medical exam, brisk and no nonsense and entirely impersonal, it's the first time anyone has touched him, skin to skin, since-

"Well, come on then. What are you waiting for?"

John blinks. "What?"

"Show me which one it is," Rodney says.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry," John mutters. He opens his hand to reveal the black king, and snorts. "Maybe I should have just saved myself the trouble."

They settle on either side of the desk and Rodney presses a button on the coffeemaker. A red light goes on and the machine hisses, even though there isn't a power outlet in sight. John raises an eyebrow.

"It's got its own modified power module," Rodney explains, sounding a tad defensive. "What? I work late in here sometimes. I needed my own source of coffee."

"I didn't say anything," John says, holding up his hands.

"Coffee will help keep our minds alert and focused on the game," Rodney adds. His gaze settles on the silver flask, sitting precariously on the very edge of the desk where it's been pushed to make room for the coffee machine.

There are lots of answers John almost makes in reply to that, but somehow when he opens his mouth all that comes out is, "Okay."

John doesn't waste any time in starting the game by moving his king's pawn forward two squares.

"Pawn to King Four. That's a very conventional opening move," Rodney says, eyeing him suspiciously.

John gazes blandly back until Rodney turns his attention to the board again to make his opening move. It takes a while. Rodney frowns down at his pieces, his fingers resting momentarily on at least half his pawns in between darted looks at John's pawn, sitting all alone in the middle of the board. John twiddles his thumbs, and leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling for a bit, and then he starts to whistle for a few seconds until Rodney's death glare silences him. He's actually given in and poured himself a cup of coffee by the time Rodney finally moves one of his knights out into play.

"Ha!" Rodney says.

John immediately moves another pawn forward one square. "Your move," he says, and goes back to his coffee.

Rodney's jaw tightens. His next move, bringing out the other knight, only takes him about half as long as the first, though.

John moves the second pawn forward another square.

Rodney visibly inflates. He grabs hold of the black pawn directly opposite the white one John just moved and brings it forward two squares so that the two pieces meet head to head.

After that, the game gets properly underway.

The coffee in John's mug is still barely touched and starting to get cold by the time he moves his queen along the diagonal to the edge of the board.

"Oh please, Colonel, I'm not a Fool," Rodney says. "Did you really think I was going to just conveniently move those pawns out of the way so that I could fall for the oldest trick in the book?" He moves his own queen several spaces forward.

John shrugs. It's always worth trying out Fool's Mate once on a new opponent, even Rodney. Hell, _especially_ Rodney. "And I'm not a Scholar," he says pointedly as he moves his queen back to guard the king, putting an end to Rodney's little set-up of what has to be the second oldest trick in the book. Like John hadn't noticed the way Rodney had his bishop all ready to line up behind the queen. Like John hadn't noticed the little gleeful smirk at the corner of Rodney's mouth that he always fails to hide when he thinks he's winning at something-anything.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Clearly, you do have some idea of how to play chess, for one thing. That requires at least a little mental application."

"I've been playing since I was six," John says. "This and golf. My dad taught me both. He needed a partner. He tried to teach my mom, and they nearly wound up di-"

He's coughing into his hand before he finishes the sentence. The cough is embarrassingly fake but it's still better than the alternative. _Nearly wound up divorced while they were still on their honeymoon_ , he was going to say and he has absolutely no idea where the words came from.

Well, except, maybe, that he does know. It's maybe why he was on a balcony by himself and planning to stay there awhile.

In another moment he's on his feet and running a hand through his hair before he's even properly aware of what he's doing. "You know, I'm not really in the mood for chess right now. I should probably go," he says.

Rodney gets up so fast that his chair slides back and hits the wall behind him. "No, that's okay. Really. I don't mind. Stay. We can find something else to do." The words tumble out in a rush as Rodney moves around the side of the desk.

"I should let you get some sleep," John tries again, all too aware that Rodney is standing between him and the door now.

"Oh, I'm fine. Really," Rodney assures him. "I've got, ah, a secret stash of movies sitting on the hard drive over there. No one's seen any of them. What about if we watch one of those for a while?"

John shifts on his feet and considers making a break for it. He's faster than Rodney, but Rodney's broader and heavier and his reflexes might just be good enough to catch John on the way past. "I think I'll go for a run, out around the East Pier, maybe. A little physical exercise-"

"I'll come with you!" Rodney says desperately.

They share a long look. John wonders which one of them looks more surprised.

"You want to go running with me," John says.

"Um, yes?"

"No."

"No, you don't think I want to go running with you, or no, you don't want me to go running with you?"

"How about both?" John suggests.

"How about neither?" Rodney counters. There's a familiar belligerence to his tone, and the way he's standing there, arms folded across his chest and chin jutting out, is all too familiar as well.

John's all ready to match Rodney's belligerence with plenty of his own, because there's no _way_ Rodney is going to keep him here against his will. He's about to make that totally clear to Rodney, in short, blunt extremely unscientific terms, when Rodney looks him straight in the eye and stops him dead. It's an expression John's seen on Rodney's face a time or two before, but it's much more familiar than that. He's glanced in a mirror and surprised that look in his own eyes in the past, and seen it on other faces, going way back. He knows all the things that that look means, maybe better than Rodney does. And right at this moment it means that John's not going anywhere.

"Look, just forget the run, okay," John says irritably, leaning a shoulder against the wall. "So, what's this about a secret movie stash?"

"Uh," Rodney says, clearly unprepared to have victory just handed to him on a plate. "Could you run that last bit by me again? I'm pretty sure I missed something crucial."

"No, I just- Look, I changed my mind. Can we just leave it there?" John moves over to the bed, flops down on it and back against the pillow, just like Rodney always does the instant he arrives in John's room on movie night. And then John takes a better look at the thing that's sitting flat against the wall directly opposite the bed, the thing that's almost completely obscured from view by the closet next to it if you happen to look at it from anywhere in the room but the bed, and he frowns. "Rodney, what the hell is that?" he asks, nodding towards it.

"What does it look like? It's a monitor."

"I can see that." It's one of the flat screen monitors from the main labs. Not one of the really big ones, but big enough. "Just- What's it doing here?"

"What the- Why do you care? I can bring equipment back from the labs if I need to use it here. When you have to supervise idiots all day you take your perks where you can get them."

"It's pretty convenient having it right there. That way, you can lie in bed and... work," John observes.

"Yes" Rodney agrees. "And no, you can't borrow it! Shove over and make some room, will you? My bed isn't any wider than yours in case you haven't noticed."

John shoves over and Rodney sits down on the bed. Then there's some moving around and adjusting and complaining and pulling off of boots and a bit more adjusting until finally they're settled into their usual positions for movie night, jammed together on the bed. Except that it's only the two of them, and it's not John's bed and instead of a laptop sitting at the foot of the bed there's a decent-sized plasma screen.

Rodney grabs his tablet from the nightstand and starts tapping away at the screen.

"What have you got on there? The usual cheesy sci-fi?" John asks, craning his neck to look over Rodney's shoulder. "Or maybe some classic disaster movies?" They'd look good on this screen.

"Of course I've got some of those. Everybody in Atlantis has got some of those. Hardly anything makes your Marines happier than a movie with plenty of _bang_ and _crash_ and _boom_. Except for things that go _bang_ and _crash_ and _boom_ for real, of course." The look Rodney sends John's way as he says this makes clear that he thinks that hardly anything makes the Marines' commander happier either. "But as it happens, no, I don't have a secret stash of disaster movies. Actually, my secret stash mostly isn't movies at all. It's _this_."

Rodney jabs the screen of his tablet and the screen opposite the bed comes to life with some stirring theme music and a voice over and opening credits and-

John inhales sharply and then has to remind himself to let the breath out again. There are planes. Everywhere. Classic planes. World War II bombers and fighters. Aircraft that filled his dreams when he was a kid. They show footage of the B-17 prototype being unveiled in 1935. He remembers putting together an Airfix model of the B-17, the Flying Fortress, that he got for his birthday once, getting his fingers stuck together with the glue, and his mom helping-

He takes another breath and forces himself to exhale slowly.

"So, this is okay? This is your sort of thing?" Rodney's sounding unsure.

John forces a smile. "You ever know any pilot who wasn't into this sort of thing? I grew up on all this stuff."

"Not like this, you didn't. Just wait for the next bit."

And then suddenly the scene shifts and it's almost like he's in the sky for real, behind the controls of a Mustang, taking part in a World War II dogfight. The plane they called the Cadillac of the Sky whips in and out and around the clouds in a series of manoeuvres that John could execute in a puddlejumper in a fraction of the time without breaking a sweat and yet still never achieve quite the same kind of grace. And there's a sharp edge of excitement with it that practically leaps off the screen. That thrill of danger is all too familiar, and yet different, too. The mental interface gives John a connection with the puddlejumpers he's never had with any other aircraft, but it can't match the link a pilot has with this sort of plane on a purely physical level, strapped into his tiny cockpit and one with his machine.

It's not the real thing, it can't be, but as flight simulations go it's something pretty close to amazing, just the same.

"The cgi in this is pretty good," Rodney comments.

"Yeah, not bad," John agrees, not taking his eyes off the screen. He settles back into the pillows a little more. "All that's missing now is the popcorn."

"I thought that was your department," Rodney grumbles.

"Your place, you provide the snacks," John tells him.

"I'll try to remember to get the caterers in beforehand next time."

This time John's smile isn't forced, and when Rodney's body slumps a little more heavily into John's side, John doesn't make any sort of move to push him away. After a bit he lets his own shoulder lean back against Rodney's, and John knows Rodney's smiling, too, without even having to look to make sure. They've always communicated best when they're not really saying anything. They amuse and baffle Ronon, and especially Teyla, with their argu- discussions that typically start with _Batman_ meander through _Get Smart_ and wind up at _Star Trek: the animated series_ and somehow _still_ get them to the right answer, the one that will save the day, yet again. Often they talk in little broken half-sentences, sometimes because they don't watch where they're going and they end up in a place where words are just plain awkward, sometimes because they don't have to finish the sentence at all: both of them are already riding the same idea train to its destination. They speak to each other with looks that run the gamut from annoyed to fond to _oh shit_. That constant, steady pull of _something_ weaves through the flow of their conversation in all its forms. John's not sure what to call it, doesn't think that he wants to put a name to it even if he could, but he can't deny that it's there, all that stuff that happens in the spaces in between.

It's sort of funny, really, when he stops to think about it, that he likes McKay for his silences.

There are a few more computer simulations, each as impressive as the first, but then the voiceover starts talking about ball turret gunners and tail gunners and... well, yeah, it's interesting, but John's heard it all before. In fact, it's possible he's even seen a lot of this footage before. The light from the screen flickers as the scene changes, making shadows dance across the wall. John watches them as the narrator drones on. He's starting to lose track of what the voice is talking about, but he doesn't really care. He's something like warm - or his right side is, pressed against McKay from shoulder to ankle-and he's something like comfortable for the first time all day. For the first time in a lot of days.

He stifles a yawn and lets his head fall back on the pillow. It won't hurt anything if he closes his eyes just for a moment...

*

_"I don't like tea," he tells Mitch, and Mitch laughs. John knows that's not right. For one thing, he's sure he likes tea. He remembers telling someone he enjoyed a good cup of tea, ages ago, not long after he first went through the Stargate._

 _"Trust me, you'll like_

this _tea," Mitch assures him, and hands him a silver flask, and that's not right, either. There should be low tables and smoke and... oh yeah, and for another thing Mitch shouldn't be here at all because he's dead, blown away in the desert with Dex and memories of beverages that were never served in flasks.

"Come down for dinner," Mitch says, which is wrong, too, but when John looks at him again he's not Mitch any more. John's father is standing there, in his Air Force uniform, his face as unlined and his hair as free of grey as John's own.

_

_"But I don't want any," John says stupidly, because really dinner is the least of it._

_"Stop messing around and come down now, John. I've made tuttle root soup and we can't let it go cold. It doesn't matter what you think you want. You don't have any choice."_

_"But," John says again._

_"Choice is an illusion." And it's Teer standing there now, serene and sure, by the gate of a house that she's never seen, on a planet in a galaxy she's never seen either. "I know what you must do, I've always known. Just do what I say, stay where you are, and all will be well."_

_"But I don't want-" John tries._

_"Really?" He's not altogether surprised to hear Chaya's voice at this point. He turns to find her perched on the edge of a balcony, the lights of Atlantis spreading out behind her and the stars of the Milky Way rising above. "Do you know what you want? And what you don't? Or are you prepared to_

settle _, yet again?"_

"I don't-"

__

_"Some would say that making a choice is easy when there is nothing on offer that the chooser really wants. Do you agree?" She slides gracefully off the railing, landing on her feet in front of him as surely as any cat. "When was the last time you allowed yourself to be in a position to choose something that you truly desired?_

_"I-"_

_"We shared everything of who we are, you and I. Not details, not specifics, no, but all the essentials, all the different colours of emotion and reason that make us what we are." She smiles in a way that reminds him of Teer. He wonders if maybe she's going to morph into her or something right in front of him. "Do you think I don't know why you didn't come back, John?" she says gently._

_His voice sticks in his throat. He doesn't know what to say to that._

_"Every time you were home on leave I used to wonder if this was the last time, if next time would be the time that you wouldn't come back." Suzy's voice. And Suzy herself, eyes dark and sad and accusing, and he's so completely not going there and not doing this again now that it's not funny._

_"We got divorced so you wouldn't have to wonder about that any more," John reminds her._

_"Is_

that _why?"_

John doesn't answer. He looks at his feet. He's almost positive that when he looks up again Suzy will be gone. He'd be relieved about that except that he's pretty sure he doesn't want to face whoever or whatever will have taken her place.

__

_"John."_

_Damn, she's still there. He looks up and immediately wishes he hadn't. It's not just Suzy standing there now but Chaya and Teer and his Dad and Mitch as well, crowding around him, crowding him in and not letting him escape. And they've been joined by Lori, that girl he knew in college, and General O'Neill and_

Kolya _. There's something deeply disturbing about this, and John would probably stop to worry about it except:_

Behind all the rest of them stands a man, a man whose name he knows, a man whose face he knows almost as well as his own. A man he's never

__kinda _liked._

"Choose what you want, John," Chaya says, and beside her Suzy's laughing bitterly.

__*

John comes awake suddenly. For the first couple of seconds he has no idea where he is, or when - not what country or galaxy he's in, never mind whose room, and the year could be just about anything after 1973.

He blinks and the world rights itself. He's still in Rodney's room and it's night and the only light is coming from the flickering images on the screen at the end of the bed. The dogfight documentary is over and they've moved on to something that looks like it could be either a sci-fi movie or a disaster movie. It's something involving lots of hi-tech vehicles and explosions, anyway. Rodney's turned the sound down at some point, probably thinking he should let John sleep, but he hasn't moved away. They're still propped up together on Rodney's bed but John's sort of slipped down a bit so his head's by Rodney's shoulder, and now Rodney's looking down at him, his blue eyes serious, like John's a ZPM that's started giving off anomalous readings or something. Rodney leans a little closer, opens his mouth as if about to say something and John knows it's now or never. Never is what he should do. Never would make things simple. Never would mean relegating Rodney to that nowhere place with all the other things he kinda likes.

He chooses now.

It's a clumsy kiss. From this angle, it can't help but be anything else. Rodney's mouth goes completely still under his. John moves a hand up, cupping Rodney's jaw, holding it in place and kissing harder, more determinedly, demanding a response.

And he gets one. Rodney pulls away. "I'm not sure this is such a good idea," he says, looking fixedly at the screen, where a car or a building or a planet or something is busy going up in flames, and swallowing hard.

Something hard and cold closes over inside John. "You don't want this," he says in a clipped voice, pushing himself up against the pillows. He should have chosen never. "Forget it. I shouldn't have-"

"Hey, hey, hey!" Rodney says, grabbing John by the arm as he's swinging his legs over the side of the bed and preparing to stand. "Slow down. I never said _I_ didn't want this. I just said I didn't think this was such a good idea. Not right now."

John looks pointedly at the hand on his arm. "Really."

"Yes, really," Rodney snaps and doesn't move his hand away. "You've just woken up, your blood alcohol reading must be God knows what and I really don't think you're in any condition to be making a decision that- Look, I don't want you to do something with me that you later regret, okay?"

"How... noble of you," John says, looking everywhere but at Rodney. He can't remember the last time he kissed someone and got a response like this. His ears are burning.

"Yes, I'm trying to be noble here. It isn't something that happens very often so you might want to savour the experience. The least you could do is show a little appreciation."

"Appreciation for 'thanks, but no thanks'," John says tightly.

"I'm not saying that."

"Then what are you saying? You didn't think I was so drunk that I couldn't play chess with you before. Somehow, I'm just not buying this sudden attack of nobility." John takes hold of Rodney's hand, intending to remove it from his arm, but before he gets any further Rodney's other hand stops him.

"Look, I'm not saying I don't want-" Rodney closes his eyes for a second, as though he can't believe what he's seeing. "I'm saying... I guess what I'm saying is: are you sure?"

"I'm a man, Rodney," John says, exasperated now.

Rodney looks frankly baffled at that. "Who said you weren't?"

"I mean, I'm not a kid. I know what I'm doing." John rolls Rodney over and has him on his back in seconds, shoving a hand down Rodney's pants to emphasise his point. It would have worked really well if his knuckles hadn't caught in the waistband of Rodney's boxers. That sort of manoeuvre turns out to be a lot easier doing it to yourself than when trying it on someone else.

"So this is a demonstration of you knowing what you're doing?"

"Shut up, Rodney," John says, only stopping long enough to pull his hand free before crawling on top of Rodney and pushing him back against the pillows. "Please," he whispers. This time when John kisses Rodney he doesn't wait for a response. He just goes for it. And this time he gets the sort of response he's aiming for.

It's different, because he's never kissed a man before, not properly like this, yet it's familiar, too, because he's watched Rodney so often, been aware of him right there by his side for so long, that nothing about him can feel completely strange to John any more. Not even his kiss, all pushy wet lips and tongue, and rough stubble catching with his own. There's none of the pleasant cool of Teer's kiss, or the cool cool of sharing with Chaya. Rodney's kiss is warm, all of him is warm against John, warm and reassuringly human and light years in every way from the searing heat and tearing cold with which the Wraith devoured and exposed and restored him turn by turn.

He pulls back, breathing hard, staring into Rodney's bright eyes and flushed face and lips that are wetter and fuller than John's ever seen them. _Did I do that?_ It's hard to believe in, even though Rodney's solid and warm beneath him. He opens his mouth, not sure what he's going to say, and ends up letting out a long breath instead. It's all here, his for the taking, and he doesn't know where to start.

And then he doesn't have to. "Let me," Rodney says, and he's wriggling free and trying to push John off him before John has a chance to move out of the way. It's only by a fluke that they both don't end up on the floor, but in another moment John's the one on his back, lying back and letting it happen, easy and slow, just like he's done plenty of times before.

Or not so slow. Rodney's pushing at John's clothes, fingers big and clumsy as they fumble with the button of his pants. His hands stop to stroke up along John's belly and then down along the crease of his thigh... oh yeah, Rodney knows what he's doing. But more than that, John realises, he's eager for this. His hands are _trembling_ as they trace a path along John's skin. It's like Rodney is the one who's spent years stopping himself from thinking and feeling and _wanting_ -

John gasps, head pressing hard against the wall through the pillow, his hips pushing up and off the bed. He's as hard as he's ever been, straining into Rodney's big hand, his sure grip, turning his face against the pillow to stifle the sounds he can't hold back.

_Everything..._

John clamps his lips firmly together and forces his eyes open. He's raced right to the brink and Rodney's still barely touched him. John imagines how he must look spread out on the narrow bed still wearing half his clothes, his t-shirt rucked up under his armpits and his pants tangled round his feet, and Rodney... Rodney above him, looking down at him, seeing him revealed like this. Their eyes lock and a moan escapes John's lips.

"So does this mean you 'kinda like it' here, after all?" There's a smile lurking at the corner of Rodney's mouth but he's mostly serious, the words as careful and tentative as Rodney ever gets but-

"No!" That's not what this is at all.

Rodney doesn't get it, of course. His hands go still.

"No," John says again, trying for something gentler and missing by miles as he hauls himself up against the pillows. He should probably say something else. He's not sure what.

"So, what-," Rodney begins just as John says, "I don't-"

They dart a glance each other and then look quickly away again. John stares down at his left hand, gripping the edge of the bed right next to Rodney's.

"Look," John says, and bites his lip. "I guess what I'm trying to say..." He swallows. "Is that. I don't _kinda_ like it here. That's the... thing. I really- This is where I want to be. Right here."

"Well, good," Rodney says, but he doesn't make any move to touch John again.

John's had enough of words. He's never going to find the right ones for what he's trying to say, and stumbling along awkwardly like this is just making it painful for both of them. He pulls Rodney down, pulls him close so that they're face to face and chest to chest, body against body so that nothing's hidden.

"Yeah, it is. Really, really good," John says, and kisses him, trying to put everything into it, all the things he can't find the words for. He hopes like hell that Rodney gets it.

He pushes a hand down between them and feels the hard outline of Rodney's cock through his pants. Rodney moans into the kiss and then he's kissing John back, hard and desperate, like it's all his idea. He reaches down and pushes John's hand out of the way so he can shuck off his pants, never breaking the kiss the whole time, and then he's drawing John's hand back again, pressing John's palm against the hot hard length of him while his other hand finds John's cock. Then they're rocking into each other, sliding into place and finding the right fit immediately, like they've been doing this for years. It's so easy and so fucking good, just like that. John closes his eyes and lets it happen and the only thought left in his head is that the two of them really do communicate best when they're not saying anything at all. They're matching each other move for move, thrusting and straining against each other and gasping into each other's mouths, and everything's escalating out of control so fast that there isn't room or need to wonder if he's doing this right. This isn't going to last long.

Rodney tears his mouth away from John's and presses a trail of kisses along John's jaw to the side of his neck. "Let me," he breathes into John's ear, and then he's pulling away and sliding down the bed before John has a chance to say anything stupid like _What are you doing?_

Rodney's hands are warm and gentle on John's balls, and then his mouth is warm and wet and not gentle at all on John's cock. Rodney finds the rhythm of a moment ago and John falls back into it, groaning as Rodney presses closer between his legs. Rodney's hands slide around and down, fingers stroking firmly along the backs of John's thighs and that shouldn't- John doesn't-

John doesn't last another moment. He bucks up once, twice and that's _it_. The white heat of the orgasm slams through him, like flying a fighter blind into the sun.

_Everything, everything in the world._

When John opens his eyes again, Rodney's propped up on one elbow beside him, watching his face.

"So," John says.

"Yeah." Rodney smiles, looking way too pleased with himself.

"So," John says again. "What do you-"

"Oh, anything, whatever you like," Rodney says quickly, like it doesn't really matter, like he can't be wanting it almost as desperately as John was just a moment ago.

_Fuck me_ , John almost says.

He wants to say it, to watch Rodney's face for his reaction as John says those words. Part of him wants that and wants it badly, the reckless part that already knows how to let go completely when it has to.

The rest of him knows that he's not going to. Not today. Not with the memory of the Wraith's touch still fresh.

"And when I say 'anything'," Rodney continues, "I mean it of course in the sense of anything that involves you commencing as soon as possible. You can take your time and consider all the possible options first another time, but right now-" He pulls John's hand down between them so he can feel, just in case John might have missed the press of Rodney's erection hard against his thigh.

"Another time, yeah," John says slowly. Maybe Rodney's come up with the answer, just like he always does, without even knowing what the question was this time. Maybe this doesn't have to be a question of now or never. Maybe the answer really is just _not today_.

He wraps his hand around Rodney's cock again, and pulls up in a long, firm stroke then lets his fingers skim lightly over the head in a feather light, teasing touch. Rodney shudders, and his mouth drops open on a long, low moan. John smiles. This, he knows exactly how to do.

John's fast and focused and not trying for subtle. It doesn't take long to bring Rodney right to the edge. Rodney's pushing up into John's hands, desperate, when John leans into Rodney's neck and rakes his teeth none too gently just below Rodney's ear.

"Ohgod, ohgod-" A noise that sounds almost like pain catches in Rodney's throat and then lets go in a long, shuddering breath as all the rest of him lets go too, warm and sticky in John's hands.

Rodney flops down into the mattress, still panting. "Oh, God," he says again. "That was- It's been- That was-"

"That was me demonstrating what I can do," John says with a smirk.

Rodney smacks John half-heartedly on the shoulder without bothering to open his eyes.

Still grinning, John grabs Rodney's abandoned t-shirt from the nightstand to wipe his hands and then lies back down close beside Rodney. Their legs tangle together. It's a very narrow bed, after all.

Their heads lie side by side on the pillow, facing each other. Rodney's watching him again. He reaches out to run his fingertips along the side of John's face. John closes his eyes and ducks his head against Rodney's shoulder.

He's forgotten how much easier it is to touch right after sex. It's the opposite of awkward. The bits of him that aren't warm against Rodney feel left out, wanting to feel as much as the rest of him. He's hyperaware of the sensation of skin against skin: the back of one arm against Rodney's ribcage, his cheek against Rodney's shoulder, the sole of his foot against Rodney's calf. Right at this moment, none of him wants to go anywhere. He wants to stay here, forever, wrap himself up in Rodney until Rodney is touching every inch of him, until no part of him is alone any more.

There's a quiet voice inside him telling him he should freak out at feeling this way. Usually he doesn't hang around an instant longer than he has to, afterwards. As soon as the opportunity to escape presents itself, he's out of there. And okay, he knows that makes him a bit of an asshole, maybe even more than a bit of one, but none of the women he's been with anytime recently wanted or expected anything more of him. Well, they didn't expect anything more of him, anyway. He's pretty sure.

This feeling won't last, of course. It never does. Those five minutes of closeness right after making love probably drew his marriage out longer than it should have lasted, helped it linger for a while, but ultimately couldn't change it into anything other than the dying thing it was.

This doesn't feel like an ending, though. John's pretty sure about that, too.

He has no idea what Rodney will expect of him after this.

Rodney's hand moves, fingers stroking gently along John's bicep. For once, Rodney is silent.

The movie's finished now and the screen glimmers dimly at the end of the bed, washing their skin in its pale glow. It's late and quiet, and they're relaxed and sprawled against each other in bed after good sex. It's the sort of setting that's supposed to invite confidences: silly little snippets of pillow talk, perhaps, or deeper revelations spoken quietly in the semi-dark. John wonders if maybe he should say something, but he's not sure what's appropriate in this sort of situation. It's not like Rodney is some stranger he's just picked up, or a girlfriend or, God help him, a wife.

It's not like Rodney is a woman.

Maybe he should just say goodbye. He should get up and get dressed, tell Rodney he'll see him in the morning. He should put things back the way they were before, fix things before it's too late. Rodney's his friend. He even made a point of saying so when they were out on the balcony before.

Rodney's hand is still moving. It's trailing along John's neck now. His fingers rub slow circles along the tendon, his palm stops to cup the side of John's neck and John's leaning into it before he even knows what he's doing. Two fingers slide up under John's jaw, tilting his head just a little, just so, and then Rodney's mouth finds his. John thinks vaguely that those five minutes aren't up yet and then lets himself get lost in the kiss.

It's a long, slow kiss, the sort they didn't take the time for before. There's nothing desperate or demanding about it, lips just exploring, gentle and soft, like neither of them ever is. It doesn't stay that way, though. Before long, soft and sweet and slow turns into something else, mouths pushing hard against each other again and again, all question and answer and challenge, and Rodney's pressing closer beneath John's hand as it moves up and down his side, strokes along his hip.

John's just short of shuddering and there's nothing soft about him at all when he finally wrenches himself away with a gasp. His lips feel bruised and he's not sure who won.

Yeah, whatever else this is, it definitely isn't an ending.

John wonders how Rodney would react if he started sharing confidences now, if he told him that this is only the second time he's been with a guy. Or that he still doesn't know for sure why his marriage didn't work out, and he thinks that might mean that it was mostly his fault. Or that he decided to join the Air Force in a fit of spite that buoyed him along until he ended up staying on for a whole different set of reasons. Or that his mother cracked up and ran away from home one day when he was a kid. He found the correspondence with the psych hospitals, years of it, going through the papers in his father's desk after his dad's first heart attack when John was twenty-six.

All in all, John finds it easier not to talk about anything that might make someone react, or feel they have to. You just never know what might turn out to be the factor that pushes a person over the edge into a reaction no one wants.

John runs a hand down Rodney's chest, feeling soft hair under his fingertips. "I don't have to go just yet," John says. It isn't what he thought he was going to say.

Rodney smiles. As reactions go, he'll take it.

They pull back the covers and finally get into the bed together, resuming the same positions, pressed close together side by side, with Rodney's arm draped across John's waist.

"Your place or mine tomorrow night?" Rodney mutters into John's hair.

"Rodney-"

"We have a chess game to finish, in case you've forgotten. You're not trying to wriggle out on me already, are you? Because I won't accept a forfeit." The arm on John's waist tightens its hold.

John turns his head on the pillow to look Rodney in the eyes. "Nah, you should know by now that I always see these things through to the end."

"Just as well," Rodney says. "My place, then, since the game's already set up here?" His fingers curl into John's hip.

"Sounds good." John hooks a foot around Rodney's left ankle. His toes stroke slowly along Rodney's instep.

"And maybe the next time we can play in your quarters. If you want to continue, that is," Rodney says, his voice just a little breathy.

"I haven't... played chess in a long time," John murmurs, lips so close against Rodney's ear that each word is almost a kiss.

"Then clearly it's my duty to help you get in as much practice as you can." There's nothing almost about the kiss this time. "But next time I'm playing white," Rodney adds. "You don't get to go first every time!"

John presses his face into Rodney's shoulder, hiding his mouth against Rodney's skin because he can't stop the smile that just keeps growing broader and broader, and deep down he really doesn't want to. Like he told Rodney, this is where he wants to be. Right here. This is where and what his life has brought him to and he's not trying to deny it.

And he likes that. John likes it a lot.

**Author's Note:**

> Fool's Mate and Scholar's Mate are both classic traps often tried on inexperienced chess players, and can result in checkmate after a very small number of moves. They're explained better [here](http://www.chesscorner.com/tutorial/basic/scholars/scholars.htm%20).


End file.
